


Adrenaline Rush

by MrSpears



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Angst, Dark, Drama, F/M, Grelltaker, Healing, Love, M/M, Multi, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-24 20:24:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7521922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrSpears/pseuds/MrSpears
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Undertaker helps Grell heal after she leaves her poisonous relationship with Will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Adrenaline Rush

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Johnlockthedoors](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johnlockthedoors/gifts).



Rain pelted the grimy window, hard droplets slipping down clouded glass and pooling on the creaky wooden sill. Undertaker rested is hands against the pane, tapping the thin, dark wood with one fingernail and listening to the clacking sound it made. 

_In the very depths of hell, do demons not love one another?_

He had asked her that, once. Her response had been _”But we are not Hell’s creatures, darling. And Heaven doesn’t want to catch sight of us either.”_

They were truly neutral creatures, existing between Heaven and Hell in a place that could be touched by neither angel nor demon – only crossed. They were the world’s only true outcasts. 

For some, that would have been the very definition of Hell.

And now he was alone in his shop. The coffins were not acting as his companions today. They were grim, silent sentinels – lined up in their perfect rows along the walls and across the floors. They hugged their pride close to their chests, introverted, and cast long shadows like fingers. Undertaker preferred their company to an empty room, but he found himself wishing for one of death’s slightly more…lively forms. 

A splash of color, maybe. The coffins were dark like the long-dead – desiccated corpses with all the moisture sucked from their shriveled skin. What they needed was red – the color of blood, a fresh new death. They needed rejuvenation like the corpses that came to him in need of preparation, in need of care and the caresses of adoring hands. 

He wanted the blood red reaper. But Grell had not been to see him in an age, not since her last spat with William had left her locked in the tower. 

The door swung open. He heard the bell ring. Undertaker did not look up – he knew he blended in perfectly well with the heavy, dark drapes. If someone was searching for him specifically they would call him out by name. If he was interested enough, maybe he would answer. 

Heeled boots clacked against the rotting floor. The boards groaned and as they sank a little further with each step, bowing to the weight of a far more commanding individual. There was a breath of rose perfume, and Undertaker had to choke back a delighted laugh, twisting his mouth in order to suppress a smile. 

“Are these the depths of Hell, then?” she asked. “Is it here where demons come together?” 

Undertaker turned away from the window, dragging his long nails across the glass until it screamed. His lips broke out into a Cheshire cat grin. 

“Only when they’re in love.” He replied, his voice a haunting little coo. “Or they are hiding from larger demons.” 

“What if it is both?” Grell turned her head, not nearly enough to hide her rising blush. “You know, I came in here full of confidence. You disarmed me nearly instantly.” 

“Disarming is the first step towards disrobing.” Undertaker stepped closed, curling his fingers inward towards his palm and resting his pale, icy knuckles against her cheek. “And I fully intend to have you defenseless.” 

She leaned into his hand and looked up at him over the red frames of her glasses. There was still a yellowing bruise underneath her right eye, so faint and no larger than a thumbprint. One could barely notice it. Undertaker took hold of her glasses and lifted them up, letting them fall so that the chain jerked and they thumped against her chest as he leaned in close enough to press his lips gently to the faded bruise. 

“Ouch,” she said softly. He curled his finger underneath her chin and lifted her head up to look at him. He was head and shoulders over her, she had to strain her neck to see his face unless he stooped. 

She pouted, crimson lips bunching up pettishly. “You’re going to mess up my makeup.” 

“I’m not going to do anything,” he said quietly, “that you don’t want me to do.” 

“There is only one thing I want from you right now.” She shoved his chest playfully and stepped back, the back of her heel hitting the edge of a coffin. She reached behind her and set her palms on the edge, pushing herself up until she was seated on top of it and sliding back. She splayed her legs wantonly, tossing her flame-red hair out of her face and lowering her thick black eyelashes. “Love me like you do your dead girls, make me feel the adrenaline rush of death again – that speeding of the pulse, rapidly pounding and screaming for release before death stops the blood and the heart slams into the ribs one last time. Take away my breath and make music with my stolen voice.” 

Undertaker gripped the brim of his hat, lifting it away from his face and sweeping back his silver hair so that it fell away from his unsettling green eyes. 

“Oh, dear lady,” his laughter bubbled in delight, “you are the _fairest_ face of death.”


End file.
